Moving Target

by R. A. McGee

  So she sat. For hours.

  Her leg was bouncing as she watched the people move around her, everyone going their own way. Everyone with a plan on who they were seeing. Everyone with someplace or someone to go to.

  The gnawing in her stomach finally getting the better of her, she walked over to the vending machine and examined her options.

  “It’s not easy, is it?” a voice behind her said.

  Laura Bell wheeled around and saw a plump woman wearing a bus employee uniform.

  “There are a lot of choices,” Laura Bell said as she turned back to the vending machine and bent over to look closely.

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  Laura Bell straightened up and turned around again. The lanyard around the woman’s neck had an ID that read Sharon Simpson. “I’m sorry?”

  Sharon looked around, then stepped closer to Laura Bell. “I know.”

  “You know what?”

  “Who you are.”

  Laura Bell looked at her for a moment, then pulled her hat low again. “You must have me confused with someone else,” she said as she started to walk away.

  Sharon gently hooked her arm. “I know who you are because it was me once.”

  Laura Bell turned around and raised her eyebrows.

  “Once upon a time, when I wasn’t much older than you, I had a husband who beat me, too.”

  “You think my hus—”

  “I mean, look at your face, honey. You’re so swollen and black and blue, I can tell you don’t even look like you anymore. No pretty girl gets beat on like that, ain’t a man involved.”

  Laura Bell didn’t say anything.

  “See? I can tell. I recognize the signs. I’ve been watching you for hours, sitting over in that little corner. Scared, watching everyone that goes by. You trying to work up the courage to leave, aren’t you?”

  Laura Bell hesitated for a moment. “Something like that.”

  Sharon nodded her head. “It’s a look you girls have. Time to time, someone shows up, looking like they need to get away. Sometimes, they get up, get on a bus and go who knows where. And I’m happy for them. Sometimes, they walk right out the front door, and I’m sad for them. Because I know what they’re going back to.”

  Laura Bell didn’t say anything.

  “You got any kids, honey?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s even easier if you got no kids. I had two when I walked out the door. It was hard, but the best thing I ever did.”

  “I think I should—”

  “Go. Yeah—yeah, you should. You should go wherever you want. And tell you what, since I work here, I get a few free bus passes to use. I never have time; I’m too busy working. I always try to give them away. Give them to people who look like they need them. Would you like one?”

  “I’m not sure if I should.”

  “Why not? What do you have to lose?”

  “I don’t even know where to go.”

  Sharon nodded. “Tell you what, you come with me right now and I’ll set you right.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yep. Come on.”

  Sharon gently pulled Laura Bell’s arm and met with no resistance.

  The pair walked out the front, to the large asphalt parking lot where several buses were idling. The bus station employee looked at the destination placards in a couple of the windows and walked Laura Bell to the third one.

  “But I don’t… I don’t have my ID or anything.”

  “That ain’t no problem.”

  Sharon banged her fist on the bus’s bi-fold glass door. It opened with a squeak.

  “Hey, Sharon. How you been, baby?”

  “Better than I deserve, Gus,” Sharon said, pulling Laura Bell in front of the open doorway.

  Laura Bell looked up the stairs at the driver’s bushy white beard and thick glasses.

  “Gus, this is a friend of mine who needs a ride. Can you use one of my vouchers?”

  “No need. Hell, we leaving in a few minutes and we only half full. Just go find you a seat.”

  Laura Bell looked at Sharon, then to Gus, then back to Sharon. “Where’s the bus going?”

  “If you have nowhere to go, does it matter?”

  Laura Bell looked down for a moment, then reached out and squeezed Sharon tightly. “Thank you.”

  “No need. You just help someone else that needs it someday.”

  Laura Bell nodded and started up the stairs. She paused halfway up, then stepped back down to the asphalt.

  “Forget something?” Sharon said.

  “Yeah.” Laura Bell took her red hat off and handed it to Sharon. “Could you please throw this away for me? I don’t need it anymore.”

  Sixty

  The cowbell clanked its usual welcome and Porter stood for a moment in the entryway, looking across the counter.

  “Are you colorblind?” a voice called out from the kitchen.

  “My dad was,” Porter said. “Fun fact about me. Well, him, I guess.”

  Claudette came out of the kitchen holding a spray bottle of blue cleaning liquid and a rag. “Then you should have been able to find the little green button on your phone—the one that says ‘talk’—and call me. Or am I missing something?”

  “I know. I’m sorry. How was the casino?” Porter said, a hopeful lilt in his voice.

  “You mean despite getting stood up?”

  “Naturally,” Porter said.

  “It was actually great. I won seventeen hundred dollars. Go me.”

  Porter smiled. “Then you should really be thanking me.”

  “How’s that?”

  “If I’d been there, you would have been too busy to gamble.”

  Claudette blushed. Porter hadn’t tired of watching the flush of color move around her chest, neck, and face. “Says you.”

  They each leaned on the counter, an easy silence between them, which Claudette soon broke. “It was because of Pima Newton, right?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean,” Porter said.

  “Please. I told you this was a small town. A couple of our big-mouthed crones saw her going to breakfast with her parents. I’m sure she didn’t come home accidentally.”

  “Definitely no accident,” Porter said.

  “So it was you, then? Look, you don’t have to tell me, it’s okay. I’m probably better off not knowing. But if you stood me up to find her, or help her or something, how can I be mad?”

  Porter stared at the woman. “I am sorry, though.”

  “I know. It’s okay.” She broke away from his eyes and looked down at the floor beside him. “Nice suitcase.”

  “You like it? I got it for you,” Porter said.

  “Pretty random to give somebody one piece of luggage, but I could use a new roller.”

  “Glad you like it,” Porter said.

  “How can I say thanks?”

  “You know what I want,” Porter said.

  “Since we're in public, I’ll assume you mean something to eat.”

  “Well, that too,” Porter said with a smile.

  “Go sit,” she said and disappeared to the kitchen.

  Porter sat at his table and looked out the picture window at the small street. People walking up and down; parents with their children, pushing strollers. The setting was picturesque, with the last of the leaves still dangling from their branches.

  It seemed nice.

  Claudette came back after some time and handed Porter a brown paper bag.

  “What’s this?”

  “Your usual. And although I will never bless that concoction you put on my masterpieces, I gave you a few handfuls of ketchup and mayo packets,” Claudette said.

  “No tray? I really am in the doghouse, huh?”

  She smiled. “I’m not stupid, Porter. I know you’re leaving.”

  Porter looked at her and didn’t say anything.

  “And that’s okay. Honestly. Don’t get me wrong, I like you and you seem like a great guy. But I knew
you were leaving when you were done doing what you came for. Now that Pima’s back, I don’t think you’ll stay much longer.”

  “Claudette, I’m—”

  “It’s fine. Seriously. I’m not some delusional schoolgirl stalker who thought you were staying forever. That thought never crossed my mind,” she said.

  “Never say you aren’t a schoolgirl. I bet if we dress you up in a little skirt—”

  “Oh, shut up. I had a great time with you. I know I would again. If you’re out this way in the future, look me up. Deal?”

  “I will,” Porter promised. He fished in his pocket and pulled out the copy of The Graveyard Book that she’d loaned him. “I wanted to give this back to you.”

  “Did you read it yet?”

  “No. I was a little busy the last few days,” Porter said.

  “Keep it. When you come back, tell me what you thought about it.”

  “I can’t take your favorite book.”

  “I can find another one if I need to,” she said. “I’m sure we have it at the library.”

  “Just make sure you turn it in on time. I’ve met Lonnie the librarian,” Porter said. “I think he’d hunt you down.”

  They laughed and held each other’s eyes for a moment.

  “Come here.” Claudette motioned for Porter to stand and he did. They hugged for several moments and ended the embrace with a small kiss.

  Porter picked up his bag of food, then tapped the handle of the rolling suitcase.

  “Let me put this in your car for you,” Porter said.

  “Just leave it. I’ll get it in a few.”

  “It’s kind of heavy,” Porter said.

  “What am I, feeble?”

  “I’m only good at a couple of things, and lifting stuff is one of them. If you take that away from me, what else will I have? You wouldn’t want me to feel unfulfilled, would you?”

  Claudette flashed her crooked smile. “Fine, just put it on the passenger seat.”

  “I will.”

  After one last hug, Porter was out the door without another look behind him. The cowbell was the last thing he heard from his new favorite restaurant.

  The only thing keeping him from leaving the little town and heading home was the small matter of keeping his word.

  And Porter was a man of his word.

  Epilogue

  Sheriff Dennis Spaulding’s stomach turned at the thought of another sip of bourbon. The stupid country hicks he’d surrounded himself with worshipped the stuff. He tried to pretend, so they didn’t accuse him of being any more of a Yankee than they already thought he was, but he couldn’t stomach another mouthful.

  Deep down, he dreaded every sip he took. He knew he needed to drink it, as the most influential of the men in the area seemed to worship the stuff. If it wasn’t the mayor, it was the district attorney; if it wasn’t the county manager, it was the head of the local political party. Everyone trying to be so much more important than they were with the old bourbon and cigars.

  “Silly rednecks,” he muttered to himself.

  He pulled another microbrew from his refrigerator. It was from a small brewery based in his neck of the woods, just outside Boston. He missed the Northeast, and wanted to go back. In fact, his Martha was there for the next couple weeks, visiting friends and family.

  He was supposed to be with his wife right now, but this Pima Newton business had popped up.

  He couldn't believe the mess the Rollins clan had managed to make. Not only kidnapping the daughter of an FBI agent, but then not having the good sense to kill her like professionals.

  When he’d gone to the county next door, to help work the crime scene at the Teddy Bear Motel, he hadn’t shed a tear for the idiots who’d died there. Why should he? They’d brought it on themselves. In fact, if each group had been a little smarter, none of this would have ever happened.

  Still, the incident wasn’t a total loss. Now that Pima Newton had been rescued, that big son of a bitch Porter was out of his hair. That alone was worth his losses at the Teddy Bear.

  Sure, he’d have to find a new crew to split their profits with him, but it shouldn't be hard. The jail was full of local idiots who were looking for a quick buck. Spaulding didn’t think he could broker a new deal with the cartel, though; they would be pretty sore about losing so many men in one small town in only a few days.

  That was the only part Spaulding was concerned about. The Los Primos cartel had a way of carrying a grudge. But this was America, not Mexico. People didn’t just kill police here. Elected officials didn’t get kidnapped and executed as a warning to stay out of things.

  This wasn’t Juárez; no one killed the town sheriff here.

  Even if he’d been inclined to worry, he’d positioned himself as a hard target. His big pension plus the salary the county paid him had afforded him the luxury of living in the nicest neighborhood in the area, with a gate and twenty-four-hour watchmen. There were two guards on at all times, and they even got into a little golf cart once an hour and checked things out. It was a better neighborhood than Pima’s father could afford on his fat federal salary.

  No, there was no easy way to get at him, and Spaulding knew it.

  Spaulding drained the last of the beer, then padded across the wide, hardwood planks and went to the kitchen in search of another one.

  He passed the massive granite island that took up the middle of the kitchen and dug through the fridge. It took a bit of a contortionist act, but Spaulding found the last one, way in the back.

  He’d have to order more from the brewery. He cursed at the thought of having to leave and go get a lesser local brew, but smiled because there was no one to arrest him for drunk driving.

  As he popped the top off, he heard a faint ringing noise. He stood still for a moment, then brushed it off.

  On his way back to his leather sectional, he heard it again. Spaulding paused once more, this time holding still for much longer. About the time he convinced himself that he was imagining things, he heard it a third time.

  Spaulding moved toward the direction he thought the noise had come from. He stood still, waiting to hear it again. It wasn’t any noise he remembered hearing in his home before.

  The noise came once more.

  Spaulding went to the laundry room, thinking maybe his sweet Martha had changed the ring alert on their double-capacity washing machine.

  The machine was off.

  Walking around the kitchen hunting the noise, Spaulding heard it again and got a bead on it. He walked to his front door. Putting his ear against it, he stood frozen, trying to verify his hunch.

  Through the door, yet another ring.

  Spaulding retrieved his pistol from the countertop and slowly opened the door, coming face-to-face with nothing. His nearest neighbor in either direction was over a hundred yards away. There was a conservation green space across from him that would never be built on. That was one of the things he liked best about the lot he had chosen to build his home on. Privacy.

  Looking around for a few moments, Spaulding heard the ring again. This time, he turned and saw a large box on his porch swing.

  He frowned, stuck his pistol in his waistband, and walked over to the box. It was for a low-priced bourbon, more of the stuff he hated. He wondered why whoever had dropped it off hadn’t waited and shared some with him. He had come to expect that from these idiot locals.

  Resolving to figure out who the gift-giver was later, he lifted the box up, noticing an odd splash of spray paint on either side of the box.

  The last thought Sheriff Dennis Spaulding ever had was to lament having to drink the contents of this box with someone. More bourbon—he just couldn’t get away from the stuff.

  The last sound Sheriff Dennis Spaulding ever heard was the crack of a rifle, sending the right-sized round, with the right velocity, piercing through the package.

  And then boom.

  The End

  Want More Porter? Rough Company Is Waiting…

&nb
sp; To reunite a father and missing son, there’s no telling how many laws—and bones—he’ll break.

  Porter isn’t above breaking the law in the name of justice. So when his cousin pleads for his help in reuniting a military friend with his young son, the former federal agent suits up to settle matters outside of court. But with a vindictive ex and her crooked fiancée thwarting his every move, the custody battle may just end in bloodshed…

  And if tracking down an endangered child wasn’t enough of a challenge, Porter finds himself roped into a turf war that threatens to drive his cousin’s bar out of business. With brawling Armenian gangsters, a growing pile of dead bodies, and a prying journalist on Porter’s case, his retaliation comes up two fists shy of law and order.

  When the justice system fails the most vulnerable, how much pain is Porter willing to inflict to set it straight?

  Rough Company is the third novel in a razor-sharp series of crime thrillers. If you like bone-shattering action, gripping suspense, and quick-witted heroes with nerves of steel, then you’ll love R.A. McGee’s unflinching tale.

  Buy Rough Company to join a brutal hunt for justice today!

  Buy Rough Company

  Ready for a free book? Try Subtle Deceit!

  Tracking down a missing person takes a brilliant mind and bloody knuckles…

  Porter has no match when it comes to tracking down a target. The former federal agent has built a business gathering leads from missing persons posters… if the reward is enough to line his pockets…

  When Porter finds a potentially profitable case in the disappearance of a free-spirited co-ed, he never expects the father to offer a double reward if the girl is found in 24 hours. In a race against time, the former agent follows a twisted trail of frat boys, ex-lovers, and a vengeful crime boss. Porter vows to get to the truth before the day is through, no matter how much pain he needs to cause to get the job done…